


Turn on Those Sad Songs

by coaldustcanary



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Holding Hands, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: It might be hell on everything else, but if the theories were true he supposed it would do wonders for his art, at least.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 145
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Turn on Those Sad Songs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> Thanks to Elton John and Bernie Taupin for the title inspiration.

There was a fashionable school of thought when it came to the development of bardic arts—the ballad, the epic, the poem, and so on—that was popular among certain scholars at the university and practicing bards of the courts but to which Jaskier had not often given a second thought. The argument that it was required to experience a thing, personally and viscerally, in order to best represent it in lyric or verse had always seemed to _him_ quite limiting. Frankly, it seemed like either a novice’s earnest assumption that an artist could and should only “write what they know” or a thrill seeker’s rationale for seeking out the thick of things and potentially getting bludgeoned or stabbed or meeting some other ridiculous end.

(Never mind that he had once been such a novice and thrill seeker; he was older and wiser now.)

This theory generally was presented in a superior, lecturing tone, whether by an Oxenfurt professor to bored students or an idol explaining art to an enraptured audience. It went something like this: he who had never been in battle could not meaningfully tell the tale of a fight beyond the tired narrative of flashing blades and the shine of armor. He who had never been joined in earnest fellowship with a brother of blood or oath could not truly sing of the glories of such camaraderie, only its pale shadow. And he who had not loved—and better yet, lost—could never describe the joys of a soul’s meeting its true mate or the sorrows of a broken heart, only mouth sweet words or conjure a single dramatic tear for a particularly credulous audience.

Jaskier had for years been quite confident that this was utter nonsense. He had built his career listening to stories and weaving the experiences of others into songs that could lift an audience’s spirits or cast them low with admirable success. To be sure, in his many travels he had experienced the reality of the world and its pleasures and dangers all in turn. He rarely spent more than a season or two at any particular court or teaching a term to eager students before he would strike out on the road once more, and he’d had his brushes with calamity, perhaps more than many an itinerant bard. But there was a marked difference, in his estimation, between skill in transforming his observations into great art and the notion that he needed to experience every particular thing in order to truly know it.

“Bollocks,” Jaskier wheezed. Bracing his shoulder against a scrubby tree at the foot of the mountain to catch his breath in heaving gulps, he began to consider that perhaps he had been too hasty in his dismissal of the theory. Jaskier pried his fingers from the strap of his lute case and scrubbed at his face with a shaking hand. The trip down the mountain had been far faster than the days they had spent climbing it. Shit—and apparently also bumbling bards—flowed more easily downhill. Jaskier spared a breathless chuckle at the thought.

But he hurt. A pressure, a dull pain in his chest, like a broad band drawn ever tighter was the main of it, but it was more than that. A faint tremble in his limbs, too, and a bone-deep ache throughout his whole body. It was possible, reasonable, even, to conclude that the strenuous hike up the mountain was catching up with him, but he knew that wasn’t the reason. Even as the terrain grew easier, the hurt increased with every step.

Geralt had wished him gone, and so he took his leave. Jaskier felt with a kind of grim surety that this parting had a taste of finality. (It was a familiar, sickly copper taste in his mouth, in fact. He’d spit on the ground feebly a few times, expecting to see blood, and been surprised at its absence.) They had parted ways with ill humor before, of course. Hungover, injured, offended, tired, and in need of space and peace on either or both their parts was a common occurrence that would lead to another parting, but always— _always_ —Jaskier had felt confident in the sure knowledge that they’d meet again, days, months, or even years later. Geralt was a constant in his life, even when he was on the other side of the continent. Even when Jaskier didn’t rely on rumors of the White Wolf’s presence in some terrorized village or haunted manse to track Geralt down, he could inevitably strike out on the road with nothing more than a vague hunch and be certain to run into the other man before long.

But this time Geralt wanted him gone. Well, he could do that. Couldn’t he?

“I bloody well can.” Definitive. Firm. Not at all wheezing for breath, no. He was a _trained vocal artist_ , he couldn’t be _winded_.

He could do it. It just meant acknowledging where he _wanted_ to be ( _who_ he wanted to be with, really) and turning away to strike off in exactly the opposite direction. In that spirit Jaskier straightened, pushing away from the tree, and stumbled toward the road to the south.

“If this is the path I must trudge,” he half-sung breathlessly, shrugging his lute higher on his shoulder with a grimace. “I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance— Penance? Really? I suppose…”

It might be hell on everything else, but if the theories were true he supposed it would do wonders for his art, at least.

* * *

Picking out a meandering, melancholy tune on his lute as he sung softly, Jaskier could not help but spare a wary glance for his audience. Charm combined with a hint of rakish disrepute had once been his stock in trade as a performer. A wink and a nod, or sometimes careful application of a touch of flirtation (or more than a touch, as the situation demanded) had stood him in fine stead over the years. Songs of heroism and triumph touched with playful humor and dripping with word-play had created and sustained his career for two decades. But the winks no longer landed properly these days, the knowing nods all too often became a hanging head, and the less that was said about his attempts at flirtation of late, the better. The very thought of trying tweaked the all-too-familiar tightness in his chest, and only years of long practice allowed him to continue breathing deeply and singing through it. Nonetheless, the refrain’s lyric ended with a sort of plaintive edge as the strain of pushing on right through the pain without gasping for breath like a landed fish crept into his tone.

Things were certainly…different, now. Several members of his attentive audience sighed dramatically as the lyric trailed off into silence and the soft notes of the bridge. Another stifled a sob. One fellow toward the back made a choking noise, and as Jaskier drew breath to begin a new verse, wept openly.

“Her Sweet Kiss” had begun it all, in fairness. Though the lyrics of that composition had fairly vibrated with his frustration and banked anger for Geralt’s abject stupidity early on, little by little each performance had become more plaintive than the last, despite his best efforts. His audiences had at first burned with righteous indignation right alongside him, used to being courted with rousing affect by his songs, whether glorying in a victorious battle or applauding the justice served by the hero. But between his permanently grim mood and persistently aching chest, the song had morphed from strident accusation to warning and finally a wistful sort of mourning for something lost.

There was nothing to do for it but to play grudgingly to his new strengths, for what they were worth. Laments. Ballads of love and loss. Mourning songs. All of them edged in a sort of grief that had taken up residence in the hollow parts of his chest and made itself known only in the sharp edges of his music and a determination to walk away in the wrong direction whenever the ache threatened to ebb. It was hard, though, when an increasingly-demanding instinct tried to pull him in the direction that promised relief.

Geralt had in no uncertain terms wished for Jaskier to be removed from his life, however. The least he could do was to respect and maintain their current distance, however difficult it might be with the witcher’s habit of roaming all over the Continent on his monster-slaying errands. He was getting altogether too close again these days. He couldn’t linger in this town much longer without risking a meeting.

It wasn’t as though he still didn’t have admirers and fans all over, anyway. He still had a career and a steady income, even! Though Jaskier supposed now that he cut quite a different sort of figure, his audiences kept him in coin and ale just the same. But he was a bit of a sad case. Pitiful—no that was too strong. He still had some pride, after all. Melancholy, now that struck the right sort of note. He still took care with his appearance, of course, but tramping all over creation to keep well ahead of Geralt’s wanderings had taken its toll. His finery hung a little loose on his frame of late, truth be told. But even if a woman or man had pushed past his newly-grim mien to make a pass…well. He doubted that he could dredge up even the pretense of interest.

As the song’s final verse warbled to a close Jaskier pressed a hand to his chest and managed a fitful half-smile as several members of his audience clapped softly or murmured their praise for his performance, dropping coins into the cup he’d set out by the tavern’s fireplace and downing their drinks fit to drown their sorrows. He straightened, easing the tension in his back, and flexed his fingers into the silence, managing a half-smile as the lingering small twinges of soreness gave a familiar sort of comfort. Performance even such as this left him feeling worn out in a way that was different than the ever-present dull pain that infused his chest and unnaturally chilled his bones most nights, even beneath a snug roof and just before a fire. The small burn of muscles stretched and used to their strengths was far more pleasant than the other sort of pain, at least.

He put away his lute with care, leaning back into the wall and tucking his fingers under his arms, pressing them in firmly against his ribs to warm them as the tavernkeeper kept her end of the bargain and brought over a mug of ale to wet his throat, her gaze canny.

“I’d never have thought it, but you were right. I’ve sold more drink tonight than in weeks,” she said, satisfaction fairly dripping from her voice. Jaskier hitched a shoulder in a small shrug and reluctantly pulled his fingers away from his ribcage to accept the tankard she offered.

“Emotive music provides opportunities for catharsis that few enjoy in their daily toils,” he explained, a hint of his lecturer’s tone creeping into his voice.

“Joyful music inspires celebration, camaraderie and lowers inhibitions in one way; sorrowful songs inspire mourning, a safe exploration of grief, and then a desire for escape from the pain through distraction,” he continued, taking a sip of the ale. The tavernkeeper’s brow furrowed.

“They feel a bit better after a good cry, then better yet when they’re a few drinks in,” Jaskier clarified. The tavernkeeper snorted softly, shaking her head.

“Makes little sense to me, but I’ve seen the proof of it. It’s strange, though, the change. But I suppose you can’t sing the witcher’s praises so much anymore, leastways not in these parts. Whatever works, eh?” Jaskier abruptly set down his ale with a clatter, barely able to mask his soft grunt of pain with a cough as the band around his chest tightened itself a notch at her words.

“Oh? What’s he-? I don’t keep- I don’t…” Jaskier sputtered. A shallow breath in, and then out, carefully. The pain was bearable, but only just.

“Why?” he finally managed, as the tavernkeeper’s eyebrows climbed up into her graying hair.

“Maybridge.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The village to our east,” she began.

“What. About. It. Andthewitcher,” Jaskier cut her off with a soft grunt of effort. It was becoming somewhat difficult to draw a full breath.

“Why, they hired him to slay a beast terrorizing the village, as witchers do. Or they’re supposed to, right?”

“Yes, and…?” Jaskier clutched his fingers into the front of his doublet, not entirely sure if he was bracing against the pain in his chest or trying not to strangle the pleasant-enough grandmotherly woman where she stood. She seemed only marginally aware of his distress, shrugging her shoulders bonelessly.

“He didn’t. Well. He tried to claim that it wasn’t a beast after all, refused to kill it, wouldn’t take their money, and said it should be left alone. The village men decided to do what they had to and go after the thing in the end, and not a few of them were left sore hurt after the killing. It’s a witcher’s job to do these things, isn’t it? So they’ll take compensation out of his hide, I expect.” An inarticulate noise slipped past Jaskier’s lips, and the tavernkeeper tutted.

“Don’t worry so, the local law’s involved and they have him at the jail. They’ll not kill him, I’m sure. Just make sure he has a reminder of how beasts should be treated,” she said, shaking her head.

“Imagine that. A witcher gone _soft_ —hey now, where are you going?” Looping the lute case over his shoulder, Jaskier scrambled for the door, hitting a flat run by the time his boots met the muddy main path.

So intent was he on rushing toward the east end of the town, he hardly noticed how easy it was to draw breath.

* * *

Jaskier couldn’t sustain a run the whole way to Maybridge. He ran a bit, then he trotted, and finally walked as briskly as he dared. Sometimes he slowed to a stumble, but he didn’t stop. Maybridge was the next village of note, but that meant leagues of mingled farmland and wood bordering a path barely wider than a trader’s cart to travel. Luckily the full moon provided a small measure of light to guide his feet, otherwise this would have been even more of a fool’s errand than it was.

“Bloody bollocking idiot of a witcher. ‘It’s not _that_ dangerous, it’ll only eat you if you _bother_ it…’ Because that’s what yokel arse-end-of-nowhere villagers want to hear about the monster in the neighboring wood you absolute _pillock_ , _”_ Jaskier huffed into the night, wringing his hands to ward off the chill as he hurried along the track.

“This—THIS is precisely why you needed me around. This very thing. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Well. Of course I can. I _made_ your reputation, witcher. Now look what you’ve done with it! Ruined all my good work with your idiocy. You’ll certainly tell me to piss off after, you ungrateful grumpy bastard, but you’re going to get an earful first, I tell you what. _And_ you’ll hear it over a damned drink. A drink you’ll buy!” Jaskier sputtered, panting. It was the righteous indignation of his quest easing the familiar ache in his bones, to be sure.

Dawn had broken clear and cool by the time Jaskier reached the village’s outskirts and the locals began to go about their day, tending livestock and gardens. Despite his disheveled appearance, he received a few nods of greeting—a bard’s presence was rarely begrudged in a town of this size. Even as small as Maybridge was, he expected there would be a jail or at least a local manor house with a cellar where they’d keep a criminal, so he didn’t bother asking directions and stayed on his path into the center of town. It didn’t take long for him to be rewarded by a tiny green in the village’s center, a tidy cluster of market day stalls…

And a prominent, new set of stocks on a rough-hewn wooden platform around which a scattering of hard-faced villagers already began to gather.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned.

He spared a brief moment to be relieved that it wasn’t a gallows or block, because _witchers,_ after all, but only a moment. Jaskier blew out a breath and raked his fingers through his hair, peering around intently. If the villagers were gathering already, that meant it wouldn’t be long before the day’s punishment-cum-entertainment. And they’d not have imprisoned him too far away, because however angry they were, they couldn’t be so stupid as to entirely dismiss a witcher’s reputation for violence and mayhem. And—

Well. Jaskier just knew that he was close, and sternly admonished himself that if the past months had not been the right time to examine that awareness closely, right now sure as _fuck_ wasn’t, either. He didn’t have the time, not when—

Like a lodestone drawn to iron, Jaskier spun on his heel before he could even consciously think, and there he was.

The villagers were not, it turned out, entirely comprised of idiots. They’d bound Geralt’s wrists in iron behind his back, and there were a healthy contingent of sullen and strong-looking men circling him, weapons drawn, as they made their way toward the stocks platform. Any prisoner would have been well-caught by the precautions they took. But the Geralt that Jaskier knew could have won free of them anyway. He’d take wounds, to be sure, and so would they, but he _could_ have.

It stood to reason and all appearances that this was not the Geralt that Jaskier knew. He looked tired. No, that was wrong. Geralt had, in the decades of their acquaintance, often looked tired. He slept ill and infrequently. He often hunted at night, ate poorly, was unable to sleep at any hour. It often left his eyes tight at the corners, his mien a touch ragged. Most wouldn’t notice, but Jaskier knew the signs well enough.

This Geralt was exhausted. A pale shadow of himself. His hair fell around his face, loose from its usual tie, stubble grown long enough to appear as a scruffy beard all along his jaw. Filth and blood dotted his leathers, cheek, and bared forearms, though he didn’t appear to notice. His clothing looked far more worn than Jaskier had ever seen it before, and Jaskier had once seen it partially eaten away by a spitting beast’s acid saliva.

Jaskier had known Geralt to be angry, to be resigned, and even stoic in the face of abuse or loathing, but this…it was if he wasn’t even present, not really. Geralt appeared neither to blink nor to even see where he was setting his feet, allowing himself to be prodded along at spearpoint. Jaskier hesitated as the village’s apparent headman unlocked Geralt’s bindings—this would be the time for an escape, it would only take a sign, a blast to shove them away, a shield to protect his back from the spears—but Geralt allowed himself to be dragged bodily forward into the stocks, the top brought down firmly to lock his head and arms in place. His hair hung forward, covering his face, and he remained placid and still, even as the village headman stepped forward to exhort the growing mob of villagers to take their vengeance. Jaskier noted mostly rotting vegetation in the hands of the gathering crowd, but not a few stones, also, as enterprising children ran about offering little hoards of rocks with good heft for throwing in return for a coin.

“Oh, gods be good. No, no, no, not going to happen,” Jaskier muttered to himself, pushing forward through the crowd, twisting himself around the mass of bodies, and eventually shouldering a few aside to emerge at the foot of the platform.

“Geralt!” he hissed as the headman continued his little speech. There was no response from the witcher, not even a twitch. Jaskier thumped his fist on the platform, and then hissed in pain, shaking out his hand.

“Fine. Fine. This is—oh, gods preserve me.” With a grunt of effort and an embarrassingly awkward scramble, Jaskier pulled himself up bodily onto the platform and stood, drawing a deep breath and _projecting_.

“Ah. Excuse me. Good people of Maybridge! If I might have your attention!” he shouted, easily eclipsing the tirade of the village headman, who had finally begun to run out of steam. Jaskier edged backward, reaching behind himself to nudge one of Geralt’s pinned hands.

“Come on, then,” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “Wake up and look lively, if you please.”

“Hmm.” The vague sort of noise was followed by the muffled sound of a drawn breath, but it was something. Jaskier poked him again, while waving for attention with his free hand, drawing the eyes of the crowd to his face and the false smile stretching it.

“…Jaskier,” muttered the faint voice behind him.

“Got it in one,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt’s fingers twitched underneath his own, and then clutched his hand tightly. Jaskier squeezed them back gently, even as he addressed the uncertain crowd.

“Yes, thank you. Well. What a tremendously wonderful picture of local togetherness and welcome. Everyone coming together, you know, as a…a community. To…reinforce the bonds that tie you all, one to the other, in mutual reliance and brotherhood! It brings a tear to my eye—both eyes, actually—to see this kind of thing. It’s precious rare in this day and age to see such a picturesque, lovely group of people understand that the most important thing is coming together as one to—”

“Stone the witcher!” shouted one among the crowd, raising his fist.

“—stone the…no, no, no, you see, that—that would be something that the sad folk back in Dunsmill would do—very dark-minded, Dunsmillers. The way I hear it, Maybridge has every reason to celebrate the successful vanquishing of a threat to the town!” Jaskier said hastily. Behind him, Geralt stirred. Of course _now_ the bastard would wake up, to take affront. Jaskier squeezed his fingers more tightly, hoping it would serve as a warning before continuing to speak.

“After all, the beast was slain. The threat is gone. Why not take joy in your victory?” The crowd milled uncertainly, and Jaskier plowed on, guessing how the shape of Geralt’s interactions with the villagers must have gone from long, hard-won experience.

“This witcher would not even try killing the beast, and I’ve sung his heroic exploits nearly my entire life! But you—you all did what even he would not. Geralt of Rivia, the most famous witcher on the Continent! He warned you away from the creature, did he not? Told you to leave it be? So strong was the curse on it that it might have claimed you all but in the end if he had attempted to destroy it and failed. The risk was too great to you all, and so he sought to protect you all with a warning. But in the end, the tremendous will of Maybridge could not be denied, and armed and armored with foreknowledge, you were victorious! Would you punish him for exhorting you to caution, for trying to protect you all from likely ruin?” Jaskier allowed a hint of indignation to enter his voice, meeting as many eyes in the crowd as he could.

When the muted patter of rocks hitting the earth reached his ears, he heaved a sigh of relief.

* * *

Inexplicably, Roach followed his lead. When he’d fretted a stunned-looking and silent Geralt free of the stocks and bundled him in the direction of the livery stable and onto Roach’s back, he’d worried the man or the mare would take off. But she followed him out of the merry-making village almost placidly, allowing his hand on her rein as Geralt slumped in the saddle. They walked briskly along the track further to the east, putting distance and Maybridge behind them in a strangely companionable silence, all things considered.

When Roach suddenly paused and surged off the path with purpose, Jaskier huffed as he was dragged bodily, lute bouncing off his shoulder. He hauled the mare to a halt, eyeing her warily.

“Come on, now, that wasn’t—”

“Jaskier.” Strange now, to hear his name from Geralt’s mouth for the first time in so long. He peered up at the witcher, who had roused from his apparent stupor to peer down at Jaskier with an unreadable, distant expression.

“Camp.” He tilted his head at what looked like no more than a game trail through the trees. Jaskier hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. The chorus of indignant voices underpinned by a constant ache had melted away, and he was quite suddenly and unexpectedly at a loss for words.

“Well—well, I’ll, ah. Well.” Jaskier frowned and let go of Roach’s rein. The mare snorted wetly, rolling her eye in his direction, even as Geralt leaned down heavily, clutching the saddle tightly, and offered his arm. Jaskier blinked at him stupidly.

“Get on. She doesn’t mind.” Wordlessly, Jaskier clasped Geralt’s offered arm and allowed himself to be hauled up behind the witcher onto Roach’s bony hips. Geralt panted a few short breaths, pitching forward heavily as they pushed through the lightly-wooded trail. Jaskier muttered an oath and pulled Geralt back upright to find himself face-to-face with a tangled snarl of Geralt’s hair, arms wrapping around the witcher’s body to keep their balance.

“You’re an _idiot,_ ” Jaskier snapped abruptly.

“Hmm,” said Geralt.

“I mean it, Geralt, this was surpassingly stupid, even for you.” Roach’s ears flickered, but the man in front of him didn’t seem to react.

“I will leave you be, I promise, but not until you can put one foot in front of the other without me at your elbow. And no, leaning on Roach doesn’t count, either, however generous her mood right now.” The mare loudly chewed her bit, rattling it between her teeth in annoyance, but the witcher only sighed.

Jaskier fell into silence once more, this time a little less companionably, until they reached a small clearing and they both slid from Roach’s back to the ground. He settled Geralt against a tree, and turned to strip Roach’s saddlebags.

“You’ll have to tell me what you need, Geralt,” he said brusquely. “Which potion?” Geralt only shook his head.

“No potion.” Jaskier turned abruptly from the horse, brow furrowing.

“A healer? A mage? What then—” Jaskier cut off abruptly. Geralt was staring up at him with an expression of utter dejection, his face tight with pain.

"You should know. I tried," the witcher murmured. "I got what I asked for when I sent you away, and I tried to keep it. It didn't work." Jaskier swallowed convulsively, snorting.

"What's that? Peace? Quiet? Short supply of either when I'm-"

"Jaskier,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier fell silent.

"It didn't work," Geralt repeated. "I couldn't sleep. There was no peace, not a moment. And it took me too long to realize why." For the first time that day Jaskier felt a sudden tightening of the familiar pain in his chest. Something fair threatened to break loose from the band wrapping his ribs, though.

"Oh?" Jaskier murmured, eyebrows lifting in question, even as he crouched down next to Geralt warily, trying to stifle the tentative feeling of hope in his chest. "Bit slow, witchers. You'll note my songs were never about how clever you were. Swords, magics, heroics, yes. Cleverness, not so much, but—” Geralt’s hand reached out swiftly to wrap around his wrist, Geralt’s eyes seeking his own, and—

_Oh._

They heaved deep, relieved breath in tandem, the ache that had dogged Jaskier’s every minute for what felt like forever and the tight lines of pain in Geralt’s expression melting away like snow in the sun.

“You,” Geralt sighed with relief.

_Oh!_

“Well,” Jaskier said lightly, leaning forward to thread his fingers through Geralt’s tangled hair and cup his jaw.

“Well,” he repeated, a smile starting to spread on his own face, and reflected in Geralt’s own.

“Lesson learned?”

The answer was pleasingly affirmative, even if nonverbal.


End file.
